And Tommy, after a moment’s hesitation, made his slow way back to his room and to bed.  When she had tucked him up in safety she went to her mother’s room.

“Sorry to wake you, mother,” she said, her voice shaky, “but might I sleep with you?  I have had such a bad dream and am nervous.”

Lady Kingsmead luckily liked to have her vanity played upon by such requests.  It pleased her to have her daughter turn to her.  “Of course, darling,” she said sleepily.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Carron was late for breakfast the next morning, and when he came in found Brigit sitting in her mother’s place, laughing and talking with Sir Henry Brinsley, who, much pleased by the manner in which his dull and endless stories were received, subsequently declared that it was all rot calling that handsome girl of Lady Kingsmead’s dull; very intelligent girl indeed, as a matter of fact.

But for all her composure, Brigit never quite lost her that-morning-conceived hatred of people who have two goes at ham and eggs; and an infantile remark of Tommy’s that eggs should be eaten only out of the shell, because they “bled all over the plate,” recurred to her again and again as she watched the worthy baronet satisfy his enormous appetite.

“Mornin’, Brigit.”  “Morning, Gerald.”  She nodded, and he went to a side table for some fish.

Theo, who sat opposite Brigit for the excellent reason that his father had insisted on sitting by her, took some marmalade.  “What are we to do this morning?” he asked.

She frowned with sudden impatience.  It was a horrible question.  Would he always ask it at breakfast?

Then she smiled at him, for his fresh happy face was good to look at.  “Oh, nothing—­or anything you like.  Why?”

“Because I thought it might be well, if you can spare the time, to take papa for a spin in the motor.  He did not sleep well.”

She turned to Joyselle.  “It is true.  I am one of the best sleepers in the world, but last night I had a bad dream, and it got on my nerves and I lay awake for nearly two hours,” He spoke with an air of only half-amused grievance.

“I am sorry,” she murmured perfunctorily, rising to shake hands with Miss Letchworth, whom she had always disliked as being one of those people who are jocund in the morning.  Then, as Yelverton proceeded to provide food for the unfortunate jocund one (who was really as inclined to matutinal depression as any of her betters, but considered it her duty to be “cheery"), Brigit realised that she was not sorry Joyselle had slept badly; she was glad.

“My dream, Brigitte,” he went on, his thought answering hers, “was about you.  You were so unhappy, poor child, and I was trying to help you, but could not reach you.  It was very dreadful, for I could hear you call to me.”

“How—­pathetic,” she answered, with stiffening lips.  “But—­would you like to go motoring?” He nodded delightedly, for his mouth was full of toast.